


Almost Alone

by Silvestria



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then you've forgotten when I pulled you into the conservatory at the Northbrooks! How sad!" "No, I haven't. It's not quite the same with twenty chaperones hiding behind every fern." Pre-series missing scene. Angsty Mary/Duke of Crowborough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Alone

_"Do you realise that this is the first time that we've ever been alone?"_

 _"Then you've forgotten when I pulled you into the conservatory at the Northbrooks'! How sad!"_

 _"No, I haven't. It's not quite the same with twenty chaperones hiding behind every fern."_

" _And are you pleased to be alone with me, my Lady?"_

" _' Dear, if I answer truthfully you'll think me rather forward!"_

 **  
Almost Alone   
**

"Where are you taking me?"

The Duke was waltzing her in a more and more obvious way towards the corner of the room and grinned at her anxious question. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled and she would have happily followed him to the Moon and back if he had suggested it.

"Just round here," he replied, navigating their way round a large potted plant and two dowagers eating cucumber sandwiches. "I want to talk to you alone."

"Do you? What about?" she answered breathlessly, naively.

He looked at her for a moment and then laughed. She liked that about him. It was as if he was weighing up his reaction before letting her know what he thought, and a deliberated response was so much more worth having than a thoughtless one, even if it was only laughter. She dearly liked a man with a sense of humour.

He dropped his arms from her as they reached the corner and he opened the glass and metal door into the conservatory that ran the whole length of the Northbrooks' ballroom. In the afternoon the windows allowed plenty of sun light to filter through to the main room. The Duke took her hand and led her down the path, ferns brushing her bare arms.

"You know," he said, looking back at her, "your parents seem to think that we don't know each other very well."

"We don't," she observed. "This is only the third time we have danced together."

"Have you been counting then, Lady Mary? How very obvious of you!"

She flushed but still managed to tease him. "Well, your Grace is a very important person! It would be ill-mannered to forget the times we spent together."

He stopped walking, about half way down the conservatory and dropped her hand to stick his own in his trouser pockets. "Ah yes, I am a  _Duke_."

He seemed amused by this and Mary watched his expression, her eyes darting across his face, waiting for him to continue and to say what he wanted from her. She never forgot that he was a Duke, that he was moreover a handsome and young Duke and that he could be, should be, had to be her ticket away from home and from an unhappy marriage to Patrick. Sometimes she dared to wonder if she would like him if he were not so elevated in rank but it was not a question she was able to answer. The two things were inseparable and anyway irrelevant: Dukes simply did not suddenly stop being Dukes. Thank goodness.

"Should you like to know me better then?" he asked her after a moment, still with that smile ghosting over lips. There was something so warm and genuine in his eyes when he looked at her like this and Mary wondered suddenly if he was truly in love with her. The thought made her a little uncomfortable because she was not at all sure that she was in love with him, not when it was his title that had initially attracted her, however much she liked him now. It made her feel uncomfortable in other, more pleasant, ways too.

Her eyes flew to his at the question.

"That depends on you!" she replied coyly, alarmed at how fast her heart was beating.

"Does it really?" Again the pause and the light, almost mocking laugh that she found so appealing and he stepped closer to her.

The conservatory was almost unbearably hot with the sun pouring in on three sides and tendrils of hair stuck to the back of Mary's neck in the damp heat. Under the white gauze covering her breast, her chest rose and fell rapidly. What was he going to do? Would he kiss her? Her eyes flickered suddenly to his lips and away again. She _longed_  to be kissed. Pulled into a man's arms, pressed against the wall, feeling his lips on hers... Was it wrong to have these desires? Perhaps, and yet she was almost twenty years old and other girls were married by now. She  _ought_ to have been kissed by now. It was hard to feel that wanting something so natural was wrong. At least so she justified it to herself. Of course, she could have kissed Patrick any time she wanted, but she did not want. His face was fat! Moreover, he might think she really wanted to marry him right there and then if she let him kiss her and that was to be avoided at all costs. Not if she wanted to be Duchess of Crowborough, and she did, most desperately.

"What did you want to say to me?" she almost whispered.

"Oh! Nothing in particular," he responded with another breaktaking, slow smile. "It was just an excuse to get you alone."

She gasped as he reached up and gently brushed the back of one finger almost carelessly against her cheek. It left a spot of fire on her skin and she pressed her eyes shut for a brief moment. When she opened them again her gaze fell on the window and the obscuring screen of ferns to the ballroom beyond. The odd strain of the orchestra drifted through along with the chatter of the other guests.

"We're not alone though, not really. Everyone can see us!" Somehow the thought of discovery made her heart pound even harder in nervous anticipation.

He met her eyes. "What do you and I care for silly old women?"

"I don't care if you don't care!"

They were the same, the Duke and her. She felt it instinctively. He also found these events ridiculous, found the whole business of the marriage mart demeaning, and mocked the stupidity of all involved in them. Moreover, she was discovering now a hint of something slightly, deliciously, temptingly improper about him. She extrapolated from her own feelings to read into his character what she wanted to see, and perhaps what he wanted her to see too.

"Good."

He leaned towards her and her eyes flickered downwards again. She could hardly breathe. Then as a louder waft of voices drifted towards her she pulled away in panic. "Someone's coming!"

He also stepped back and raised his hands in surrender, laughing under his breath. "What are you afraid of, my Lady? Wouldn't you like to be caught here with me?" His eyes mocked her.

She shook her head wordlessly even as she realised he was right. If they were caught together then he would have to marry her and what could be more perfect than that? She did not understand her reaction even though he seemed to understand her so well.

"I - I should go." She brushed past him, shivering as her arm briefly came in contact with his jacket.

"Lady Mary," he called quietly after her and she turned round in alarm. But he was smiling again. He was always smiling! It made him so attractive.

He only shook his head and then waved her off. She felt she was being dismissed yet, when she reached the door and looked back, he was still watching her in amusement and she met his eyes and smiled hopefully at him. He smiled back.

As she slipped back into the ballroom, her entire absence having (rather disappointingly) gone entirely unnoticed, she felt convinced of two things: firstly that she could still be a Duchess, and secondly that next time she would not be so missish.

* * *

They were not the same.

Mary sat on her bed, clutching at its edge with both hands as if afraid that she would fall apart if she let go.

He had been a fortune hunter. Nothing more, nothing less. And in the moment that he had discovered that she was not an heiress and never would be he had abandoned her. Was she not worth something without being the heiress to Downton? She still had her dowry. She was still exactly what he had thought her last year. She was still... Mary. He had liked her well enough then. He could not have known this would happen. A part of her still wanted to excuse his behaviour. Perhaps he really had had an appointment. Perhaps he would come back from her. Perhaps like a knight in shining armour he would rescue her from this intolerable situation, not caring a jot for her expectations or lack of them.

She closed her eyes, squeezing out a single tear, and turned her head abruptly away, as if the physical movement could somehow rid her of her own self-deluding thoughts.

On top of the Duke's abandonment, on the same day, had come her father's betrayal, a worse blow in many ways. She could not think of it without feeling deep resentment and bitterness.

"But  _why_?" she had cried at him, almost wild with anger and misery.

The estate could not be split. He would not risk Downton. The title, fortune and estate must stay together. All the usual, meaningless platitudes.

"And why can't I have them all? Why can't we at least try? Why must they go to this – this Matthew Crawley? What is Matthew Crawley to us?"

She was his daughter and she meant nothing. She  _hated_  them all.

With the recollection of that conversation stabbing at her soul she gave in to her feelings and flung herself down on the bed salving her wounded pride (though she called it her heart) in a brief though passionate flurry of tears.

When she had finished she felt calmer. She sat up straight and dried her eyes and considered her situation more soberly. There was no need to give in to complete despair just yet. She still had options and she could still be married and out of the way before the new heir took up residence, if she played her cards right.

The thought cheered her for she liked to think she won more often than she lost at those sort of games.

She had only met The Honourable Evelyn Napier once and had not been much impressed with him. She had not found him particularly handsome (not like the Duke, added her treacherous heart) and he had not been clever or witty or mocking or daring. He had, however, discussed George Eliot with her for fifteen minutes and it was not every gentleman who cared to do that or was even able to do so. She would have thought no more of him though if he had not sent her a letter out of the blue, continuing their discussion. Now she held the letter in her hand and pondered him. She would only have a Viscountcy to look forward to if she married him but that was better than nothing and perhaps steadiness and intelligence were more worthy attributes to prize than a mocking smile and a certain disregard for propriety. In her mind, Evelyn Napier's portrait began to be repainted in warmer colours.

Standing up, she gave herself a small shake, went over to her writing desk with a new sense of purpose and pulled out a fresh sheet of note paper.

She was Lady Mary Crawley and she was never down for long.


End file.
